


Trouble Is As Trouble Does

by theaa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Past Jon/Ygritte - Freeform, musicians au, past Jon/Dany, past Jon/Val
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: Jon/Sansa musicians au. Singer-songwriter Jon hasn't done the 'singing' part of his job for a while now. Transplanted from his home in Nashville to LA, he's trying to make it amongst the big crowd, no matter how messy it gets. Things change when he meets America's resident pop-princess Sansa Stark.





	1. Trouble Is As Trouble Does

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Striking Matches song, which you should totally listen to.

The post awards show is in full swing. Jon cradles his tumbler of whiskey and backs into a more shadowy corner. There are a few paps about and a couple of official photographers wandering around, but they’re mostly taking photos of artists together, so they’re not really posing a problem.

Across the room he can see Dany Targaryen in her scarlet sequinned dress reclining on the bar, a cocktail glass clasped between her fingers. Her bleach blonde hair is braided intricately away from her face, and dark smudgy kohl frames her eyes. Even though the black spiky heels she’s wearing look ridiculously high to Jon, she’s still a good few inches shorter than everyone around her. Hovering near her elbow is Daario, the lead guitarist for The Second Sons, and also apparently her new boyfriend. Dany is hardly paying him any attention, but Jon suspects when he wakes up tomorrow a fresh new set of pap photos of ‘Rock and Roll’s coolest couple’ will be all over his newsfeed.

A couple of months ago, when the pictures first started appearing, Jon caught Dany coming out of the bathroom at a restaurant in downtown LA. It was pure co-incidence. He almost didn’t recognise her, so used to the grunge girl aesthetic she was putting out these days. Her blonde hair hung in soft waves round her mostly bare face, and the dress she was wearing was a pretty cornflower blue, short and flared. She was wearing flats.

They exchanged awkward hellos, Jon’s hands deep in his jeans pockets. There was small talk about her new album and Jon’s songwriting, both of them ignoring everything else they wanted to say. And then, just as Dany went to leave, she turned back and looked up at him, her eyes defiant.

‘I know you don’t approve of Daario. But you should know that I don’t care - I don’t. Daario’s vain and silly sometimes, but he’s easy and he’s what I need right now. What my career needs. All men can’t be like you, Jon.’

Jon simply blinked at her, and then nodded, and Dany slipped away. She must have left through the back of the restaurant because no pictures of her in the pretty blue dress ever appeared.

A few years ago, back in Nashville, Jon remembers sitting on a porch, his acoustic guitar on his lap, fingers playing with the chords. Dany in a soft pink plaid shirt and cowboy boots next to him picking out harmonies and jotting down lyrics as the light grew dim.

Back at the party Jon watches Dany throw back her head and laugh at something Tyrion Lannister, head of Lannister records, says. The laugh is fake, but the record deal she’s trying to win isn’t.

xxx

Sam, Jon’s PR Agent (and best friend) appears by his side. Sam doesn’t drink, sipping on lemonade all night, but Jon’s grateful because it means at least Sam can continue to do a good job of helping Jon avoid everyone he doesn’t want to talk to. Which is practically everyone. For someone who works in the music business, he sure hates mostly everyone involved in it.

‘Don’t look now, but Val’s behind you.’

Jon freezes and tries to whisper ‘Get me out of here,’ but Sam’s already shaking his head and grimacing apologetically.

‘Hello, Jon.’ Val’s low, sultry, slightly accented voice makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. When he turns around slowly she’s towering over him, her honey blonde hair hanging in her trademark braid over her shoulder, one pencilled in high eyebrow arched in amusement.

‘Val,’ he greets her. ‘You look lovely,’ he says, and she does. Her dress is long and ice-blue, falling in crystal embroidered waves to her feet.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere you haven’t already been,’ she replies, her tone droll, and Jon flushes. ‘Are you well?’

Coughing to cover his embarrassment, he nods. ‘Yeah, you know, working hard.’

‘Still no album, I see.’

‘No, not yet.’

Val’s blue eyes cut through him, as they always do, and he knows she’s dissapointed in him, but not surprised, which is almost worse. She tuts slightly and tosses her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. ‘Honestly Jon, I don’t know why you sit about writing songs for other people when you could just do it yourself.’

‘I do, sometimes. I seem to remember The Free Folk’s single did rather well, didn’t it? Number one on itunes for folk music. Where is Dalla, anyway?’ he asks, trying to deflect attention away from himself.

Val waves an airy hand. ‘She’s around somewhere. I’m not talking about you singing harmonies on the song you gave us Jon. That doesn’t count. Perhaps my sister and I can return the favour someday?’ Val’s pursed lips stretch into a wicked smile. ‘Something to think about - the two of us in a studio again.’

Jon chokes on his whiskey a little and tells her he’ll think about it, and Val turns away in search of Dalla, leaving him with hot cheeks and memories of recording in New York last winter, Val’s lean body under his, her soft honeyed voice in his ear. A perfect combination.

Lending his own vocals to the track had been a last minute decision. The Swedish sisters’ folk duo was already intensely popular and Jon didn’t want to disturb their chemistry, but Val had bartered and bribed him to lay down his own parts. The song went platinum, but every royalty check he receives reminds him not of the recording, but of those few sharp cold winter months with Val bundled up by his side. It was The Free Folk world tour and writing obligations back in LA that forced them apart, and now they mostly saw each other at events like this one, each meeting a little more awkward than the one before.

xxx

There's another close call a few minutes later when Jon spots Ygritte hanging with her bandmates on the other side of the room. Her dark red hair is short and choppy now, and it bounces on her shoulders as she laughs. One of her bandmates catches his eye and tries to wave him over, but Jon pretends not to see and hastily engages Sam in some rubbish conversation about perhaps getting a new guitar, even though they both know he's far too attached to his old beaten up acoustic. The thing with Ygritte had been messy and passionate, and if he admits it mostly just sex, on and off and on again, and then finally after a fight that nearly got them kicked out of the studio, it was completely off. Jon has never written another song for The Wildlings again, and he misses Tormund and the rest of the guys, but with Ygritte still around it's not an option anymore. She's not about to give up her position as bassist just so he can earn some more money. He thinks he can feel Ygritte staring daggers into his back from all the way across the floor. He ignores it.

There are a few people Jon does allows himself to mingle with. Davos Seaworth, the old veteran country star and someone Jon’s proud to call an old friend since his Nashville days, comes to say hello and they chat about country music for a while, and the new work Jon’s doing; what Davos wearily calls ‘hipster music’, which makes Jon laugh. Davos is clutching his lifetime achievement award tightly, and Jon wonders if it’s likely to be the last award he ever wins. It seems sad to let stars fade away like that. Stannis Baratheon, Jon’s old record manager, greets him coldly. How he can still be bitter over Jon’s decision to leave the label over two years ago baffles him, as he’s got plenty of other artists on his roster, but Stannis had always had an eye for business. It’s not great when your investment lets you down.

Eventually Jon excuses himself, and ducks around where Joffrey Baratheon, this years Justin Bieber, is apparently having a tantrum. His ‘momager’ Cersei is trying to both soothe him and shield everyone else from seeing her son’s angry outburst. Jon scuttles around the scene and back over to the bar.

He’d once been asked to help co-write some songs with Joffrey’s team. Obviously he’d turned it down. How his name had even crossed their radar eluded him, but he has a sneaking suspicion Dany might have had something to do with it. Joffrey was signed on to his uncle’s label, the very definition of nepotism, although sometimes Jon swore Tyrion wasn’t exactly very happy about it, even though Joffrey continued to rake in the millions. Perhaps Dany had dropped his name when talking to Tyrion about Joffrey’s career. It would make sense. She always did have a thing about his ‘wasted potential’. Perhaps a pop hitmaker with a few number ones to his name would suit her better as a boyfriend than the under-the-radar indie singer-songwriter he was now. Emphasis on the songwriter part.

When he gets to the bar he’s lost Sam again. He orders another whiskey and waits for Sam to return, his back leaning on the countertop when someone drops into the bar stool next to him.

Jon takes in a pair of silver platforms and long slender, pale legs, and pans upwards. The girl's dress is a pale pink colour, form fitting and ruffled at the shoulder. Long red hair tumbles down in perfectly coiffed waves, framing high cheekbones and lips slick with gloss. Sansa Stark, the resident pop princess of LA, possibly the world, sits beside him.

She leans toward him. ‘Hey, could you get me a drink?’

He stares at her a second. ‘Can’t you get your own?’

‘I would,’ she sighs dramatically, ‘but Petyr told me I can’t drink tonight, but if you get one for me it’s different.’

Rather than argue for the sake of it, Jon hails the barman and gets her a cocktail, something sugary and pink to match her dress and hands it over. She thanks him quickly and then sips at it, her eyes roving over the party. Jon would simply move somewhere else, but there’s something that keeps him anchored to the bar.

‘Looking for someone?’ he asks eventually.

‘My manager. I think I’ve lost him in the other room, but I’m not sure, so I’ve got to keep a look out.’

‘Ah.’

Jon knows all about pop artists’ tumultuous relationships with their managers, or at least he’s heard some of the horror stories along the grapevine, so he just nods. ‘What does he look like? So I can tell you if I see him?’

Sansa’s nose wrinkles. ‘Old. Salt and pepper hair. Suit that’s too small, but he thinks it fits perfectly. Little bit weasel-like.’

The description makes his lips twitch into a smile. ‘Right. I’ll keep a look out.’

She sips on her cocktail again and Jon takes the opportunity to have another look at her outfit. The pale pink clashes horribly with her hair, and the rest of the ensemble is a little cloying, what with all the ruffles. Sansa’s tall, and he bets if she stood up she’d be much taller than him, so to dress her like a pre-teen seems silly. But Jon’s spent enough time in Hollywood to realise that people don’t just get dressed for the hell of it here. Sansa’s dress screams of feigned innocence, of Sansa’s reputation as America’s sweetheart, of wholesome pop songs with PG rated lyrics about first loves.

As if she can tell what he’s thinking about, Sansa reaches down to tug on the hem of her dress, pulling it down her thighs a little more.

‘I, uh, liked your performance earlier,’ he says. ‘It’s a great song. Very catchy.’

The bar stool twizzles as she looks at him, a hard disbelieving gaze that almost makes him flinch. ‘Really? You’re a fan of ‘ _Love Like Lemonade_ ’? Excuse me if I don’t quite believe you,’ she says, gesturing to his own outfit.

Jon’s wearing a blazer on top of a grey t-shirt, and dark wash jeans - his attempt at black-tie award ceremony wear. Sansa’s eyes linger on his hair particularly, bundled up in a bun at the nape of his neck. ‘You don’t exactly look like a pop fan,’ she adds.

Again, Jon can’t help but smile. ‘You know, you shouldn’t stereotype.’

‘And I’m sure you definitely don’t,’ she drawls, and she’s right she’s got him there, so he just shrugs.

‘It’s a good choice for a single. It’ll do well,’ he says instead.

‘Thanks,’ she tells him flatly. She pauses for a second, and then adds, ‘I wanted to try another one off the album, but Petyr said ‘ _Lemonade_ ’ would sell, so…’

Jon straightens up and takes a swig of his whiskey. He’s seen labels walk all over their artists too many times, and it’s one of the reasons he’s been so reluctant to release any of his own stuff.

‘Why didn’t you?’ he asks, with perhaps a little more venom in his voice than she deserves.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Why didn’t you try another song for the single? The one you liked? Stand up for yourself?’

Sansa shakes her head and places the now empty cocktail glass back on the bar sharply. ‘It’s not that simple. Petyr–’

‘It is that simple.’

She’s glaring at him now, all her girlish innocence gone. ‘It’s not! I’m Sansa Stark, I can’t just put out any music I like. People expect-’

He’d always suspected Sansa would be a spoilt brat, a pop princess, clinging on to her tiara. She’s been in the music business since she was seventeen, riding on her father’s coattails, a legend of classic rock and using his name to get her record deals, and big names for joint tours. Everyone always whispered about her being that most terrible of things, a ‘diva’ - but all of this was kept hush outside of the industry. She consistently put out number one albums, and the public adored her.

Perhaps he’s been unfair. Perhaps, knowing the music industry as he does, how rumours circulate violently, and how petty people can become, he should have thought better of the stories he’d heard about her. Sansa seemed only to be a victim of her own success.

‘You’re Sansa Stark, and that’s the reason why I’m pretty sure you can do whatever you like. No label would want to lose you. They’d have to be stupid.’

Her glare softens, and she bites her lip. ‘Sometimes that’s what I think, too.’

There’s a beat of silence. In front of them the party buzzes on.

‘What’s the other song like?’

She picks up the empty glass again and twirls it between her fingers. ‘It’s more acoustic. A ballad, I guess.’

Jon raises an eyebrow. ‘A ballad, huh. Is it any good?’

Sansa’s pale skin flushes, cheeks momentarily redder than her nude lipgloss. ‘I - I think so. I co-wrote it.’

Jon watches her with interest. He has the idea this is the first time Sansa’s co-written any of her own stuff. ‘What’s it called?’  
  
‘’ _Winter’s Daughter_ ’,’ she supplies, keeping her eyes on the empty glass in her hand.

‘Poetic. I’m guessing it’s not a happy song?’

‘Are ballads ever?’ Sansa says with a small smile.

Jon guesses she’s right. He’s written enough of them himself. Suddenly, he wants to hear the song, read the lyrics, understand what Sansa badly wants the rest of the world to know. ‘When’s the album out?’

‘September. I’ll send you an advance copy if you want -’ She looks up at him, blue eyes shining with a shy smile that falters when she realises she doesn’t even know who she’s talking to. Jon sticks out his hand for her to shake.

‘Jon Snow. Singer-songwriter, but I guess just a songwriter for hire at the moment.’

He doesn’t know why he adds the ‘for hire’ part, but Sansa’s eyes widen when he says it, her lips parting ever so slightly. But then she spots her manager over his shoulder and slips off the bar stool.

‘Oh God, there he is. Listen, Jon -’ She says his name slowly, as wholesome as the image she puts out the public, ‘thank you for the drink. I’ve got to go.’

He watches her silver heels disappear into the crowd, and then orders another whiskey.

xxx

Exactly a week later a letter arrives at his tiny LA apartment. Jon carries it to his couch, moves his guitar, and sits down to read it. He doesn’t recognise the neat cursive on the envelope, but he breaks it open slowly, savouring it.

Inside there’s a piece of note-paper, an expensive hotel in New York printed on the letterhead, the page hastily ripped out from their complimentary stationary. There’s a scribbled address, a recording studio he recognises in LA, a top-market one he’s never personally used, and a date underneath. It’s in in a few weeks time.

_Write with me before I go on tour?_  
_Sansa x_  
_ps. I’ve fired Petyr_

He doesn’t know how she got his address, he’ll have to ask if Sam knows anything, but then he realises it doesn’t really matter. He enters the date into his calendar on his phone and sets a countdown for good measure. Then he picks up his guitar again and opens up his latest voice memo, playing the chords over the top. There’s a difficult bridge he wants to play with, some missing lyrics, but perhaps they can finish it off together.

xxx

It’s near four months later when he sees Dany again. He’s walking across the recording studio lot, on a coffee run, when Dany steps out of the studio opposite. Funny that he never knew she was recording there.

‘Jon!’ She walks over to him, in heels even now, and stops in front of him. He waits for her to speak while she pushes her dark sunglasses on top of her head.

‘So, uhmm, congratulations on the single. I can’t turn on my radio without hearing it.’

Jon runs a hand through his hair, long and curling around his shoulders now. Sansa likes it long. Somehow he doesn’t think Dany’s as happy for him as she says.

‘Thanks, uhm, yeah we’re really happy with how well it’s done.’

‘It reminds me of our old stuff. That hint of country. You can take the kid out of Nashville, but you can’t take Nashville out of the kid,’ she laughs.

Jon’s answering laugh is a little hollow. ‘Well, you sure managed it.’

Dany stops laughing abruptly. ‘So are you and Sansa official now, or-?’

‘Uhh, well we’re trying to keep it out of the papers as much as possible, but yeah, I guess so.’

‘Jon Snow and the pop princess. I never thought I’d see the day.’

‘There’s more to Sansa than you think,’ Jon says sharply. ‘She’s very talented.’

Dany nods. ‘Well, she’s certainly helped your career. Now the world can see how talented you are as well.’

There’s the first hint of warmth in her last sentence. Jon just smiles and makes his excuses.

xxx

When he gets back to the studio Sansa’s lying on the couch, her guitar on her stomach, staring up at the ceiling. She scrambles up when Jon comes in, taking her coffee with a grateful sigh and moving up so he can sit next to her.

‘Oh god, yes, thank you.’

‘No problem.’

She slurps at the coffee, and Jon takes in her ripped jeans and white t shirt, knotted at the side, the inch of skin above her waistband that it reveals. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun, red strands escaping and falling to her shoulders. So different from the first night he met her.

‘I’ve had a thought about the chorus,’ she says, picking up the guitar again. ‘I was thinking that we could -’

Jon prises the guitar out of her hand and leans in to kiss her, pressing her back into the couch. Sansa squeaks a little at the surprise, but then she smiles against his mouth and kisses him back. The guitar clatters to the floor, but neither of them take any notice.


	2. This Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LA is stifling - in more one ways than one for Jon and Sansa. Is it too much?

The LA heat is stifling today, dry, heavy, and inescapable. Jon can feel tendrils of his hair sticking at the back of his neck, his dark v-neck t-shirt clinging to his skin. Behind his dark sunglasses Jon still has to squint into the sun as he tries to think of an answer to the question that’s just been posed to him. The cafe in which they’re sat in one of those trendy brunch places where everything on the menu comes with avocado or spinach. It’s not his choice, but the music journalist sat across from him seems perfectly happy with his dry soda bread and poached egg, which comes with both avocado and spinach, so Jon guesses he’s outvoted.

He sighs and twirls the spoon around his coffee again. ‘No, it’s not a country album. There are country influences, sure, but country isn’t exactly what I was going for.’

The journo nods like he understands. ‘So are you trying to move away from your roots? Get away from Nashville, as it were, with this album?’

Jon frowns. ‘No absolutely not. Nashville is my home. I grew up on my Mom’s old country records. It’s how I learnt to write songs. So that’s why the album sounds country, because it’s a big part of me. I’m not trying to escape it, but country’s not all I do these days, you know?’

Again the journalist nods, this time more fervently. ‘I see, I see. Yes, of course - you’ve got a long list of songwriting credits, everything from folk, to indie rock darlings The Wildlings. Do you want to talk about that?’

Well, at least he’s done his research. Jon shrugs. ‘When I first came to LA for the first of couple of years I was a professional songwriter, I worked with a lot of people. I didn’t stick to a genre - if I liked the artist I wrote for them and with them.’

‘And Sansa Stark? Did you like her work, or did you just like her?’

The guys smiles at him coyly, like they’re sharing an inside joke or something, but when Jon only stares blankly in return he coughs and continues.

‘It was the first time you’d ever written with a pop artist, and Sansa’s undergoing somewhat of an image overhaul now, seemingly thanks to you. Can you tell me about the single you wrote with her?’

Jon gives out the same details he’s given in a million other interviews. ‘She approached me to write. We wrote it pretty quickly, and she wanted me to keep my vocals, so we did. We’re really pleased and surprised at how well it’s done, and it’s inspired Sansa to explore her sound a little more.’

The journalist looks dissapointed with these well known facts and prods a bit further.

‘What about the inspiration behind the lyrics? Are they personal? ‘ _I’m singing things I’d never say / Doing things that I don’t do’_ seems pretty spot on for Sansa right now. There’s a romantic aspect to the song too…’

Shifting in his seat a little, Jon gives another well practiced shrug. ‘They’re just lyrics. You can interpret them how you want.’

He has to stop himself smiling when the music journalist’s face falls again. He flicks through the iPad in front of him for a second.

‘Getting back to your album Ivory & Steel again. You wrote it, recorded it pretty quickly, and the songwriting is certainly impressive for such a short space of time, just a couple of months. There’s a track on there called ‘This Town’ that I particularly like. Some great lyrics. _We all come here with a light in our eyes / Some will burn out / Some will burn bright_. A really good addition to music’s long love-hate relationship with LA.’

‘Actually, I wrote that about Nashville. I was born there, but lots of my friends came to the town hoping to start music careers of their own. A lot of them are still there playing the cafe circuits, open mic nights. It’s a tough ride in Nashville, just like LA.’

‘Oh. That’s fascinating. I was sure - Anyway, the faint female vocals at the end - are those Sansa’s?’

Jon nods stiffly. ‘Yeah, they are.’

‘So you and Sansa are still writing together? Can we expect some future collaborations?’

‘I think Sansa has her own music to focus on,’ he replies simply. There’s that crestfallen look again.

‘Lastly, can we talk about the pop influence on the album? All the songs have very noticeable hooks. Is this Sansa’s influence?’

Jon raises an eyebrow. ‘Every good song has a hook. It’s a key ingredient of songwriting, it doesn’t matter what genre it is. Pop songs just have stronger hooks than most others. It’s not a pop album, it’s not folk, it’s not country it’s -’

The music journalist smiles, slightly sarcastic. ‘Alternative?’

Jon slumps back into his chair and nods, shrugging. ‘I guess. Alternative is fine.’

‘Some people call you an enigma, you know. One of those broody artist types.’

This startles a laugh out of him, loud in the quiet restaurant. ‘Oh really, and what do you think?’

‘I feel like you’re hiding something. Want to comment on that?’

Jon flashes him a smile, wide and false. ‘Aren’t we all?’

xxxx

He catches an Uber from the interview, but regrets it when the car immediately hits the LA afternoon traffic and they sit, engine dawdling, for enough time that Jon could probably get out and walk faster. Traffic seems to be the only thing that slows LA down, and it’s a sign of how much Jon’s had to adapt that instead of taking the time to relax he finds himself drumming his fingers on the leather of the seat, anxious and impatient to leave the stuffy interior of the cab. He misses Nashville in that moment, taking the truck out to the country, no traffic in sight, just open roads and his guitar in the front seat next to him. A loud car horn from an irate driver brings him back to reality. 

The driver lets him out a block away from Sansa’s house and he takes the back way, checking over his shoulder every so often that there’s no camera lens following him, which wouldn’t be a surprise. Sansa’s gated community is a pap hotspot thanks to all the celebrity homes inside.

When he lets himself in the condo is still and silent. Jon drops his set of keys into the ceramic bowl on the sideboard and moves into the main room, the tread of his trainers on the wood flooring impossibly loud. Evidently Sansa isn’t in.

When he’d first come here Sansa had told him that she bought the place already furnished and in the year since she hadn’t had the time or the energy to redecorate. The place is full of clean lines and shades of beige. It still looks like a showroom, and Jon sort of hates it. The open plan makes him feel like he’s swimming in the empty space, too small and untidy for such a big, pristine home.

He settles on the couch and kicks his feet up onto a painfully beige ottoman and closes his eyes against the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the big windows that overlook the pool and waits for Sansa to get back.

xxx

The soft click of a kitchen cabinet closing and the rush of the kitchen tap wake him. When he struggles upright he sees Sansa leaning on the glossy granite of the kitchen island, sipping on a glass of water. She winces when she sees him.

‘Sorry, I thought you were out of it.’

Jon rubs the sleep out of his eyes. ‘Nah. What time is it? Where’ve you been?’

Sansa pulls a face. ‘It’s 4:30. I’m sorry, Brienne called me in a for an emergency meeting.’

He must have been out for a good hour, then. Jon quickly straightens the crumpled cushions he’s slept on. Modern decor doesn’t suit untidiness.  

’Emergency meeting?’

‘She wanted to talk marketing strategy for my new material.’

Jon frowns. ‘And that’s considered an emergency?’

Shaking her head, Sansa sets down the glass of water and sighs. ‘Not to Brienne, but it’s the label. They’re…. uncomfortable with my new direction. Brienne’s trying to talk them round, but they’re having fits over whether it’s going to sell or not. It’s from the top - Mr Bolton has expressed _concerns_ , apparently.’ She says the last part with her voice dripping with contempt.

‘Well, have you shown them the figures for ‘ _Trouble Is As Trouble Does’_? I think those figures are pretty damn fine.’

Jon catches the grimace that Sansa tries to hide by turning around to the fridge. ‘I did. They think it’s different, it being a single, and people being curious. Apparently those figures can’t be sustained.’

With her back to him, Sansa’s voice is flat and detached. She slides a punnet of blueberries off the shelf and turns around again, her expression schooled carefully.

‘Well, that’s bullshit, Sansa,’ Jon says firmly, struggling to get his words out quick enough. ‘Just ridiculous. I’m sure Brienne can handle them.’

Sansa tosses one bright fat blueberry into the air and opens her mouth to catch it neatly, shrugging as she bites down and chews. ‘That’s what Brienne said.’

‘Well there you go then.’

Another jewelled blueberry follows the last one, and for a minute Jon watches Sansa eat them like pieces of popcorn, flicking them into the air and down into her mouth. It’s one of those moments that reminds him just how young Sansa is - 21 years old. Other girls her age would be in college, stressing over essay marks and frat parties, not tussling with the CEO of a major label about how she lives her life - which is what this all boils down to. When he watches Sansa’s lips, slick with lipgloss, close over the eighth blueberry in a row Jon pushes himself off the sofa and strides over to the kitchen.

‘Hey,’ he says slowly, catching her wrist before she can launch another piece of fruit. ‘Are you ok?’

Sansa’s hand falls to the counter and Jon slides his fingers until they’re entwined with hers and he’s looking her in the eye. ‘Talk to me Sans.’

Her eyes transform from resolutely blank to soft and insecure in a moment. ’It’s just — I don’t,’ she makes a small growl of frustration, ‘I don’t get why nothing’s changed. I got rid of Petyr, and Brienne’s great; I’ve made the music I wanted to make, I’m really proud of this new EP, and I’ve got _you_ now….but it’s not enough. It’s still not enough.’

He squeezes her fingers gently and tucks a curl, naturally loose and only ever so slightly frizzy thanks to the LA dry heat, behind her ear. ‘It’ll be fine, I promise. You’ll just have to keep arguing it out with Mr Bolton, and that sucks, I know. But you’ll get there.’

She heaves a sigh and retracts her hand. Jon lets her pull away, decides they’ll have to finish this conversation some other time. Sansa goes to put the blueberries away, but picks up one between her thumb and forefinger before she does and holds out the punnet to Jon. Her face is still drawn, lips settled into a thin line.

Jon ignores the offered box and pulls Sansa’s fingers towards him, taking the blueberry in her fingers into his mouth and letting it burst on his tongue. Sansa withdraws her fingers slowly, and the spark behind her eyes that Jon was looking to ignite flares up, just as he knew it would. She drags the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip and Jon shudders out a breath.

Sansa smirks. ‘Well if you’re going to ignore your table manners….’

The kitchen counter is still between them and Jon has to lean over it a fair amount to kiss her, which makes Sansa giggle, but he silences her by slotting his mouth over hers. The worktop presses uncomfortably into his stomach but Jon ignores it, curling his hand into Sansa’s hair and around the nape of her neck. Sansa kisses him back sweetly, slightly chaste with only the barest hint of her tongue running across the seam of his lips.

When she pulls back she has a smile on her face, which is all Jon was aiming for anyway.

She dances away from him and collapses onto to sofa. ‘I still have so much to do today,’ she groans, but it’s half-hearted and Jon can already tell that she won’t be leaving the house again this afternoon.

‘I’m sure it can all wait.’

‘I was supposed to meet Jeyne for dinner, too.’

Jon hums in consideration and settles next to her on the couch. Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s model friend, was the ‘IT’ girl of all the fashion magazines. Though their friendship was genuine, Jon had the sneaking suspicion that she liked to keep up public appearances with Sansa for the sake of her popularity and media presence. He also suspected that Sansa knew this but was letting it slide for the sake of getting along, which was typical of her.

He’d met Jeyne a couple of times, even been to a few of her infamous parties with Sansa, but she was flashy and ever-so-slightly on the wild side, and he never felt like he fitted in with her gang of celebrity model and actor friends, like Sansa did. Now he went if Sansa pressed him to, but he was perfectly happy letting Sansa go have fun without having to feel responsible for him the entire night.

‘What time’s the reservation?’

‘8pm, Chateau Marmont.’

Jon winces.

‘There’ll be paps, I know.’

‘Do you want to go?’

She groans and slides down the sofa, throwing back her head so she’s lying down, an arm covering her eyes.

‘I don’t know. It’s been a hellish day, but Jeyne’ll be _so_ dissapointed.’ Then, lifting her arm away from her face, ‘why, are you going to give me a better offer?’

Jon laughs and pulls her legs into his lap, removing one birkenstock and then the other, letting them drop to the floor before starting to massage the arches of her feet. ‘Why, do you me to?’

Sansa smiles and closes her eyes again, revelling in Jon’s soft treatment. ‘Keep on doing that, and yeah I will do.’

His hands leave her feet and slide upwards, tracing around her ankle bone before smoothing up her calf, exposed by the frayed denim shorts she’s wearing. Sansa lets out a soft sigh. ‘Jon,’ she murmurs, sounding as if she’s trying to warn him off.

‘Hmmm?’

His fingers dance up further, and he leans forward to press a kiss to her kneecap, and just this alone makes Sansa jerk a little. Jon stifles his laugh with another kiss to the side of her thigh.

‘What was that you were saying?’ he asks innocently, and Sansa swats half heartedly at his head, but instead her fingers catch in his hair and tighten there. Jon stops his playful kisses and looks up at her. Her smile is crooked and her cheeks are red.

‘Well, go on then.’

Jon grins and flicks the button on her denim shorts open.

xxxx

Later, when they’re both sprawled out on the couch, bodies close together to fit, damp with sweat, Sansa lets out a small gasp.

‘Oh my God!’

‘What?’ Jon asks sleepily, pressing a kiss to her neck and pulling Sansa tighter to him to stop her from sliding off onto the floor. Sansa struggles and Jon is forced to loosen his hold until Sansa’s finished writhing and is facing him, her hands flat against his chest.

‘I forgot to ask you how your interview today went! I’m so sorry!’

To be honest Jon had forgotten himself that he’d given it. ‘Yeah, it was alright I guess.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The album, the tour…. you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah, the journalist was quite pushy, actually. Asked a good few questions about you,’ Jon says, rolling his eyes. ‘Nosy bastard.’

‘You don’t think he knows do you? You didn’t tell him?’ Sansa’s voice is panicked and slightly shrill. Jon feels his heart constrict a little, and he has to pause before answering. His face shutters closed.

‘He’s a music journalist Sansa, he was just digging for a strap line.’

The hands on his chest relax, but then Jon’s sitting up, reaching for his jeans screwed up into a ball on the floor.

‘Jon—‘

He scoops up his t-shirt next and pulls it over his head. ‘And before you ask, no, no paps saw me arrive this afternoon.’

‘I wasn’t going to-‘

‘You were,’ Jon snaps, and then instantly regrets it. Sansa’s face crumples and she pulls the thin beige throw over her body.

‘Jon-‘ she says again, her voice small, and Jon breaks and sighs and sits back down.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s been six months Sansa, and we’re still hiding. I’m tired of it. At first I agreed, yeah let’s keep it out of the papers, make it just our thing, pretend it’s just professional, but this? Having to be so careful in every interview, dodge the paps, plain out lie about us? It’s exhausting.’

Sansa’s bottom lip wobbles precariously. ‘I know, I know! But don’t you get it - as soon as we go public, it’s just like when I dated Joffrey, or Harry. It’s _horrible_. You won’t be _mine_ anymore, you’ll be the media’s to make up lies about. I don’t want that for us!’

Then she does start to cry, big fat tears that roll down her cheeks in streams. Jon’s heart splinters and he leans over to wipe them away, tries to stem the flood.

‘Okay, okay, okay,’ he murmurs, ‘I’m sorry. Forget it. Shhhh.’

Sansa hiccups and angrily brushes at her wet face herself. When she calms down, she sniffles. ‘There are already rumours about us on the internet, you know. Trashy gossip sites.’

Jon shrugs. ‘I know. I mean it’s not hard to gather a story; we work together, there’s that photo of me at your show in LA, I’ve been spotted at Jeyne’s parties…’

‘They’re gonna find out eventually…’

Jon doesn’t say anything, just sits back on the couch and stares at the wall.

‘Maybe we could make a joint statement? I could contact Margaery; she does my PR,’ Sansa ventures.

‘Is that what people do? That feels like what divorcing couples do…. ‘conscious uncoupling’ style.’

There’s the hint of Sansa’s laugh. ‘Ok, no statement. What then?’

Jon turns to her, still wrapped in the throw, eyes-red rimmed and puffy. He places a hand on her ankle and gives what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

‘Let’s just… stop hiding. Low-key, just like us. It’ll blow over pretty quickly then, I think.’

Sansa bites at her lip, worrying the slightly chapped surface under her teeth, and looks doubtful. But then she nods. ‘Okay.’

Jon’s heart leaps, seemingly into his mouth. ‘Okay?’

She smiles. ‘Yeah. For you, for _us_ , okay. No more hiding.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided there will most probably be a third part to this little au. Stay tuned for after christmas! Once again, I'm Theawants on tumblr. All comments welcome (please) (thanks)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my little play in the sandbox for this. I'm super into this 'verse at the moment, so come find me on tumblr (theawants) and send me a message if you want me to add a little bit more to this.


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